


Tears and Dust and Luck

by reeby10



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/pseuds/reeby10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The neon lights of the motel were still glaringly bright, the warm night air still smelled musty and rotten, and dark cars still rolled up to the far corner of the street to pick up girls and boys in short shorts and faux fur shoulder covers. He shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around his body, and headed the other way down the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears and Dust and Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/gifts).



> For Naemi for Night on Fic Mountain 2016! Since you like h/c and wanted something set when Rusty turned tricks, I tried to go in that direction, though I'm not really certain I hit what I was going for. Most of it is more implied I guess, and it may be a little purple prose-y (maybe? sorry, I've been in a mood lately lol). In any case, I hope you like it! :)

The room was still dark when Rusty came to, only the barest trickle of light coming through the thin curtains from the streetlights outside. He stood slowly, groaning a little as the movement made his head pound and his vision swim a little. It took several minutes before he felt well enough to do anything other than just stand there, staring blankly at the stained carpet under his feet.

He looked around the room, studiously avoiding looking directly at the bed, and was surprised to see two crisp twenties on the table. It wasn’t much, but he’d thought for sure there wouldn’t be anything when he woke up. As quickly as possible, he did up his pants and pulled on his shirt-- thankfully not quite too ripped to wear, though he’d be upset about the loss of one of his only shirts later-- then shoved the money in his pocket and headed for the door.

(Outside, on the street, nothing seemed different.)

The neon lights of the motel were still glaringly bright, the warm night air still smelled musty and rotten, and dark cars still rolled up to the far corner of the street to pick up girls and boys in short shorts and faux fur shoulder covers. He shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around his body, and headed the other way down the street.

There was a small, quiet burger place not far away that Rusty went to sometimes at the end of the night when he had a little money to spare. He didn’t really have anything to spare tonight, but his need for sustenance and the pleasant comfort of food and a safe space overshadowed such concerns. He’d deal with that later, just like he did with everything else.

The tired looking cashier barely looked at him as he approached the counter. “What can I get for you?” she asked dully, picking at the skin around her brightly colored nails.

Strangely, it made him feel better to see that she didn’t care what he looked like or what he did or who he was. It was a startlingly easy kind of anonymity, one that was far more comfortable than the pitied looks or disgust he’d been getting since he was forced out on his own. This he could handle, this he could own.

“Just a burger and fries,” he replied quietly. His voice cracked a little around the words, still raw from before, but he pushed the thought from his mind. Now wasn’t the time.

She took his money without a second glance, handing him his order in an already grease-soaked bag not a moment later. He retreated to the back corner of the restaurant with it, digging in with ravenous hunger. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d had a full meal like this, usually he had to rely on a little here or a little there as he could afford it, which wasn’t nearly as often as he’d like.

All too soon, Rusty was finished eating. The ghost of hunger still flickered at the edge of his consciousness, but over the past few weeks it had become easier and easier to ignore. (Maybe too easy.) The cashier likewise continued to ignore him as he balled up his trash, throwing it away as he left.

The room where he was staying wasn’t far, but he walked slowly, not really wanting to be there. At this time of night, there were bound to be a few others back from working the streets, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be around them, or anyone, right now. The streets were just as safe as there, which didn’t mean much, but at least it gave him some space for awhile.

Dawn was just starting to peek between the buildings, bathing the street in a soft pink glow, when he decided it was time to head home for some sleep. It was hard for him to think of the place as home, even though for all intents and purposes it was now. Part of it was fear that terrible as it was, if he got comfortable there, he’d never be able to escape to some better life.

He wasn’t really sure what that better life would include anymore, but it certainly wasn’t the druggies cluttering the hallways or the nicotine stained walls or the trash that accumulated in corners or the musty smell that never seemed to leave his nose. But somewhere out there there had to be something different for him. His mom was still somewhere, after all, so there was family at least. It was enough to hold onto for now.

“Anyone here?” he called softly into the apartment, stepping carefully over a bag that had been dumped just inside the door.

A groan came from the bedroom on the left, letting him know that at least one other person was there so early in the morning. It was hard to know exactly how many people were also calling this apartment home, the numbers fluctuated greatly depending on who could afford to pay the landlord that month and who had found what looked to be a better option. Rusty thought there might be four of them at the moment, all within a few years of his age. He tried not to be too friendly with them for the same reason he tried not to call this place home.

(He couldn’t afford to get comfortable.)

Quietly, he closed the door of the bedroom he slept in. He usually had it to himself since the others found him too standoffish to want to share with. The only things in the room were a small, sagging mattress in the corner, covered by a sheet and a thin blanket full of holes, and the backpack containing all of his belongings.

He didn’t really like to leave it there, but he liked even less to take it with him when he walked the streets. It wasn’t like anything in there was important or expensive, nothing worth stealing unless someone just wanted to be cruel, but he didn’t really have the means to replace his few pairs of clothing. The backpack itself was sort of nostalgic to him too, the only connection to his mother and the life he’d had before she left him at the zoo, and he didn’t want to lose that.

Exhaustion suddenly overtook him and he collapsed face down on the bed, arms spread out so his fingers trailed on the dirty floor on either side. He breathed deeply, coughing a little at the dust, trying to control the frantic beating of his heart as everything he’d pushed down for the past few hours (the past few days and weeks and months, really) started to catch up with him. He couldn’t escape it forever, he just wished he could.

It was hard to blame his mother for the place he was in now, but it was so, so hard to feel lost and alone and afraid all the time. He was pretty good at making due with what he had, at doing the work he had to even if he hated it. It took its toll though, and the early morning hours, laying alone in a dirty, uncomfortable bed, was the only time he let himself deal with it. Quietly of course, so as not to draw attention from his roommates, but dealt with in some way.

He choked down a sob, tears and dust stinging his eyes, as memories from just hours earlier assaulted him. Most days he was fine selling his body, doing what he had to survive, but today… Well, not all the rich businessmen who bought him were as benign as they looked.

He knew he had a split lip at least, probably some bruising on his face and ribs, and his throat was still raw and sore. He’d gotten clocked pretty hard in the head at the end, and he could only hope he didn’t have a concussion or something else more serious. He’d been lucky so far, but he knew his luck wouldn’t hold out forever. Something worse was always around the corner.

(He had a sneaking suspicion this life he’d cobbled together, terrible as it was, wouldn’t last him much longer.)

He needed sleep soon, but when he woke up, he’d check his injuries more thoroughly. If he had to, he’d give them a few days to heal, though it would mean he wouldn’t get to eat much for that time either. After that, he thought he might take a chance at the local park. Maybe he’d have better luck there.

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit welcome. If you like my fic, feel free to come hit me up [on tumblr](http://voldiebuns.tumblr.com/)!


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